It's a Wonderful Life, Doctor
by Aleine Skyfire
Summary: Christmas fic! When Dr. Watson falls into deep financial trouble, he is tempted to commit suicide — until an angel shows him how profoundly his life has touched the lives of others. Based on the Jimmy Stewart classic.  Finally updated!
1. Prologue

**==It's a Wonderful Life, Doctor==**

_Christmas fic! When Dr. Watson falls into deep financial trouble, he is tempted to commit suicide—until an angel shows him how profoundly his life has touched the lives of others. Based on the Jimmy Stewart classic. _

**==Prologue==**

"I owe everything to John Watson. Help him, dear Father."

"Joseph, Jesus, and Mary. Help my friend Dr. Watson."

"Help the dear Doctor tonight."

"He never thinks about himself, God; that's why he's in trouble."

"The Doctor's a good'un. Help 'im, God."

"I love him, dear Lord. Watch over him tonight."

"I'm not a man of faith, God, but my dearest friend—my _only_ friend—needs help…"

* * *

"Hello, Joseph. Trouble?"

"Looks as if we'll have to send someone down—many people are asking for help for a man named John Watson."

"John Watson. Yes, tonight's his crucial night. You're right: we'll have to send someone down immediately. Whose turn is it?"

"That's why I came to see you, sir. It's that clockmaker's turn again."

"Ohhh, Clarence. Hasn't got his wings yet, has he? We've passed him up right along."

"Because, you know, sir, he has the brains of a rabbit."

"Yes, but he has the faith of a child—simple. Joseph, send for Clarence."

"You sent for me, sir?"

"Yes, Clarence. A man down on Earth needs our help."

"Splendid! Is he sick?"

"No, worse. He's discouraged. At exactly 10:45 PM tonight, London time, that man will be thinking seriously of throwing away God's greatest gift.

"Oh, dear, dear! His life! Then I've only an hour to dress. What are they wearing now?"

"You will spend that hour getting acquainted with John Watson."

"Sir… if I should accomplish this mission… I mean… might I perhaps win my wings? I've been waiting for over two hundred years now, sir… and people are beginning to talk."

"What is that book you have there?"

"_The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_."

"Clarence, you do a good job with John Watson, and you'll get your wings."

"Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you!"

"Poor John… Sit down."

"Sit down, Joseph? What are…"

"If you're to help a man, you want to know something _about_ him, don't you?"

"Well, naturally, of course."

"Well, keep your eyes open. Do you see the hill?"

"Where? I don't see a thing."

"Oh, I forgot. You don't have your wings yet. Now look, I'll help you out. Concentrate. Begin to see something?"

"Why, yes. This is amazing."

"If you ever get your wings, you'll see all by yourself."

"Oh, wonderful!"

* * *

The hill was perfect for sledding, and if one did well, he could slide far across the ice on the river below. One of the several boys present threw himself facedown on his sled and coasted down the hill and onto the ice, whooping with exhilaration.

"_Who is that?"_

"_That is your problem, John Watson."_

"_A boy?"_

"_That's him when he was twelve, back in 1867. Just watch."_

The other boys followed John's lead, whooping and sliding down the hill and across the ice. John grinned at the older boy still on the hilltop. "And here comes my lazy brother Harry!" he called.

"You'll pay for that, Johnny!" Harry retorted, just before he slid down the hill. But the older boy slid so far out onto the ice that he hit a thin patch in the river's bend. The ice broke beneath the sudden weight, and Harry slipped into the water.

"_Harry!_" John screamed, hurrying across the slippery ice as quickly as he could.

"John!"

"I'm coming, Harry!" Without a moment's hesitation, John plunged into the water and grabbed at his flailing brother. "Lads, come on!" he shouted. "Make a chain!"

The other boys threw themselves down, forming a human chain to reach the Watson brothers. In just a few moments, the brothers were safely back on thicker ice.

"_John saved his brother's life that day. But he caught a bad cold, and it was weeks before he could return to old man Gower's pharmacy, where he worked to learn more about medicine."_

"_Why? Was he going to become a doctor?"_

Several boys walked arm in arm down the street, whistling, until their attention was drawn to an elegant carriage passing them. "Mr. Potter," one of the boys murmured.

"_Who is that? A king?"_

"_**That**__ is Hilton F. Potter, one of the richest and meanest men in London."_

The boys continued on till they reached the pharmacy, John waving to his chums as he disappeared inside. "So long, lads!" He moved on towards the back room, calling, "It's me, Mr. Gower—John Watson."

A middle-aged man peered out from behind the door to the back room. "You're late, boy." He took a swig from the bottle in his hand.

"Yes, sir," said John, slightly subdued. He took a nearby broom and began to sweep the floor, soon whistling once more.

Gower stepped into the front room, bleary-eyed, unshaven, and chewing an old, unlit cigar. "Watson!" he called gruffly. "Watson!"

The boy looked up from his task. "Yes, sir?"

"You're not paid to be a canary!"

"No, sir." As Gower returned to his haunt, John moved on to polishing the counter. A telegram lay in his way, and he was about to move it when his eye caught the word _died_.

MR GOWER

WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON ROBERT DIED SUDDENLY THIS MORNING OF INFLUENZA STOP EVERYTHING POSSIBLE WAS DONE FOR HIS COMFORT STOP WE AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS FROM YOU FINAL STOP

CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY

John bit his lip and glanced at the back door, then made up his mind. He poked his head through the door to see his drunken employer filling a box with capsules. "Mr. Gower," the boy said timidly, "do you want something… anything?"

"No."

"Anything I can do back here?" John persisted.

"No." Gower fumbled and spilled some capsules on the floor.

"I'll get them, sir," John assured him, swooping down and retrieving the capsules.

Gower waved John aside, clamping down on his cigar and casting himself into a chair. Curious, John turned the bottle from which Gower took the capsules —the label read _Poison_. John gasped.

"Take those capsules over to Mrs. Blaine's house," Gower ordered. "She's waiting for them."

John's hazel eyes widened as he picked up the box with suddenly-numb fingers. "Y-yes, sir…" He glanced at the poison bottle, uncertain of what to say. He surely couldn't _deliver_ the capsules! "Um, they have the diphtheria there, haven't they, sir?"

"Mmm." Gower stared moodily into space, sucking his cigar.

"Is it a charge, sir?"

"Yes––charge."

"Mr. Gower, I think…"

"Get going, boy!"

"Yes, sir." John beat a hasty retreat and halted just outside the shop. _Well, this is really a fix_. As he wracked his brains for a solution, he glanced around the street… and caught sight of Mr. Potter's carriage, parked before a very familiar building. "Father," John breathed.

He dashed across the street and entered the building labeled _Watson Building and Loan Association_. Running up the stairs, he burst into the old office, startling the occupants. "Master John," the secretary frowned worriedly, "if you're wanting your father, you can't see him."

"I ken he's with Mr. Potter," John assured him, "but this is important."

"It's shaping up to a storm in there!" the clerk warned.

The boy faltered for a moment, then shook his head, resolute. "It's important." He crossed the room and opened the door to his father's office.

Henry Watson was seated behind his desk, a gentle idealist of a man, early forties but looking older and wearier. Before him in a majestic easy chair sat Hilton Potter—a man about the same age, with flint-like dark eyes and a cruel slit of a mouth. "I am not crying, Mr. Potter," Mr. Watson was protesting.

"Well, then, you are _begging_, man, and that is a good deal worse," Potter retorted.

"All I ask is thirty days more—"

"Father!" John interjected.

"Just a minute, son." The man returned his attention to Potter. "Just thirty short days. I can dig up that five thousand, I swear it."

"Father…"

"Have you put any _true_ pressure on those people of yours to pay those mortgages?" Potter sneered.

"Times aren't good, Mr. Potter. Many of these people are out of work."

"Then foreclose!"

"I can't do that—these families have children!"

"Father?"

"They're not _my_ children."

"But they're _somebody's_ children."

"Come off it, man—are you running a business or a charity ward?"

"Well…"

"Not with _my_ money!"

"Mr. Potter, what makes you such a hard-skulled character? You have no family, no children—you can't _begin_ to spend all the money you have!"

"So I suppose I should give it to miserable failures like _you_ to spend for me, is that it?"

John's eyes flashed dangerously as he took a deliberate step toward the easy chair. "He's not a failure! You can't say that about my father!"

"John," Mr. Watson tried to soothe. "John…"

But John's Scottish temper had come to the fore. "You're not! You're the greatest man in town!"

"Run along, son, please." Watson pushed his son gently toward the door.

"Greater'n _him_!" John continued indignantly, giving a shove at Potter's shoulder as he passed. "Greater'n _everybody_!"

As Watson steered his son out of the room, John half-heard another derogatory muttered under Potter's breath. His blood fired up in him again, but he was now outside the office and his father was closing the door. "Don't let him say that about you, Father!" John pleaded.

"All right, son, thank you. I'll talk to you tonight." And the door shut.

"Now what am I to do?" John moaned, staring at the box still clenched in his hand. He breathed the sigh of one with the world on his shoulders and returned to the pharmacy, much more slowly than he'd left it.

Gower was leaning against the counter, still chewing on his cigar. "Back so soon?"

John winced as he smelled the alcohol but stood his ground. "Yes, sir. But, um, sir, I didn't…"

"Didn't deliver 'em, is that so?" The drunken pharmacist was off the counter now, advancing on the boy. "Well?" He took John by the shoulders, pulled him into the back room, and shook him. "Is that so?"

John stared at his employer with wide, frightened eyes. "Y-yes, sir, I—_argh_!" Gower had backhanded him on the side of his head and continued to slap him. Tears stinging his eyes, John raised his hands to protect himself.

"What kind of tricks are you playing, anyway? Why didn't you deliver them right away? Don't you know that boy's very ill?

"Stop it, please!" John pleaded.

"You lazy loafer!"

"Mr. Gower, you donnae ken what you're doing!" John burst out, sobbing in a voice now more Scottish than English. "You put somethin' wrong in those capsules. I ken you're unhappy. You got that telegram, an' you're upset. You put somethin' bad in those capsules. It wasnae your fault, Mr. Gower…" John held up the little box, which was promptly snatched away. "Just look an' see what you did. Look at the bottle you took the powder from. It's _poison_, I tell you, it's poison! I ken you feel bad… an'…" He faltered, gingerly feeling his red face.

Gower looked up from the hurting boy to the large brown bottle on the shelf, the damning label still visible for all the world to see. Abruptly sobered, he staggered backwards, turning to the whimpering boy backed up against a shelf. "John…"

John cringed as Gower took a step forward. "Donnae strike me 'gain, sir!" he cried.

But Gower swept John into a shaky embrace and sobbed into the boy's golden brown hair. "No… no… no…"

"Please, sir…"

"Oh, John, John…"

"Mr. Gower, I wonnae ever tell anyone. I ken what you're feeling. I wonnae ever tell a soul. Hope t' die, I wonnae!"

"Oh, John."

* * *

A sixteen-year-old boy inspected the assortment of luggage before him. The clerk behind the counter hefted up a suitcase and opened it. "An overnight bag," he declared. "Cowhide, combination lock, fitted up with brushes, combs…"

The boy shook his head. "No. No… no, no, no. Now, look here, Joe, I want a _large_ one." He stretched out his arms to demonstrate.

"_Take a good look at that face, Clarence."_

"_Who is it?"_

"_John Watson."_

"_Oh, the boy who was slapped by the pharmacist?"_

"_That's the boy."_

"_It's a good face. I like it. I like John Watson. Tell me, did he ever tell anyone about the pills?"_

"_Not a soul."_

"_Seems like he's an adventurous sort of fellow. Did he ever have any adventures?"_

"_You read __**Tom Sawyer**__, but I think you should have read __**A Study in Scarlet**__ instead. Just wait and see."_

**

* * *

To Be Continued…**

**

* * *

Author's Note:**

Well, hey, what do you think? My family watched _It's a Wonderful Life_ this past weekend, and I'd already had the idea to adapt the story to the world of Sherlock Holmes. Watching the movie (which is one of my all-time favorites) just gave me the drive to get this going. Maybe I'll even get it done by Christmas!

This fic probably isn't fully Canon, in order to fit more with the original story—that can be excused, yes? Don't worry, you'll still see Mary and Holmes and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Gregson and even Wiggins!

_**Please review!**_


	2. Ch 1 A Young British Soldier

**Author's Note:**

So much for "getting this done before Christmas." Me and my big mouth. I really am sorry that I kept you all waiting so long (over a month, oy vey!), and for a chapter that isn't even longish! It was just… problematic. Very problematic. Writing Maiwand turned out to be the least problematic, and that itself was difficult!

Hopefully, some of you lovely peeps that read and reviewed are still interested enough to pick this back up!

**To my reviewers (an unprecedented [for me] **_**9**_** on a first install):**

insideouttouoedisni: I salute a fellow _Wonderful Life_ lover! =D I guess I can understand the skimming, and I'm sorry that you had to do that. =/ This chapter should be much better, though, as it's much more original—and I think the following chapters will be good, as well.

machi-tan: Thanks! Sherlock will make his entrance next chapter. =)

The Pearl Maiden: Like I would kill you! Hmph! But thank you, and I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much (if not, hopefully, more). (And Christmas is over, but go find _It's a Wonderful Life_ anyway and watch it. ;D)

matt harper: Thank you!

Faithful Bozwell: Thanks! Hope you continue to enjoy!

LuffyMarra: Sorry you had to wait so long, and thank you!

reflekshun: Thanks!

nomdeplume30: Thanks! Well, hopefully this chapter will deliver to you and the other readers who wanted a bit more originality!

**==Chapter I==**

**A Young British Soldier**

The boy shook his head. "No. No… no, no, no. Now, look here, Joe, I want a _large_ one." He stretched out his arms to demonstrate. "Like so. I'm going to _medical school_, for heaven's sakes—I need something larger than a bag for one night."

"I see… a flying carpet, mm? I don't suppose you'd like—" the clerk pulled up a suitcase from under the counter—"this old thing, would you?"

"Now that's more like it," John grinned, inspecting the piece of luggage. "Good Lord, you could use this thing as a lifeboat. How much does this cost?"

"No charge," Joe smiled.

John blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Joe simply pointed to a name engraved on the upper corner of the suitcase.

The boy gaped. "What is my name doing on it?"

"A little present from old man Gower. Came down and picked it out himself."

"He did?" John shook his head in wonder. "Imagine that—my old employer…"

* * *

John stopped by Gower's pharmacy and thanked him heartily before heading home. To his delight, the young man recognized the driver of the nearest empty cab and whistled for him. "Hey, cabbie!"

"Ha!" The cabbie waved and drove his cab over to the pharmacy. "Well, if it ain't Johnny Watson!"

John laughed. "Hello, Bill, m'lad. Say, any chance of London's newest medical student getting a ride home?"

"You've been accepted?"

John turned at the new voice, recognizing another old friend, Constable Bertram Ward. "Bert!" he grinned. "I surely have."

"Well, Doctor, get yerself in," Bill advised. "Free of charge for the occasion!"

"Oh, now, Bill, you don't have to do that!"

"Yes, I do!"

"Yes, he does!" Bert chimed.

Outnumbered, John resigned himself and climbed into the cab. "Sentimentality," he groused. "I shouldn't be taking you away from your _paying_ customers."

"Eh, they'll never know, now, will they?" Bill chuckled and whipped up the horse.

A few minutes later when the cab pulled to a stop, John left the denied fare upon his seat and hopped out, waving to Bill and practically bursting into his house. "Father?"

Henry Watson emerged from his study, holding an accounting book. "Ah, John, you're back."

"Aye—look at what Mr. Gower gave me." Grinning, John held up the suitcase for inspection.

Mr. Watson smiled back. "That was good of him. Seems that today is a good day all around for the Watson family."

"Oh?" John's hazel eyes lit with understanding. "Harry's coming home today!"

"That he is, son, but there's more. I've been looking over the books, and this has been the best year we've seen in quite a long time." The older man beamed at his son over the top of the book. "We're completely out of debt, as of this week, John."

Forgetting that he was now a prospective physician, John whooped and threw his fist into the air. "But that's wonderful, Father! We have to celebrate!"

"We will," Watson assured him. "Tonight, when your brother gets home."

John whooped again and ran for the stairs, but was halted in mid-flight by his father's voice. "Oh, and by-the-way, the Bicks visited the office today."

John looked down over his shoulder. "Violet was there?"

Watson nodded. "She asked me to give you her congratulations." He gave his son a knowing look, to which John responded with a halfhearted scowl.

"Father, she's had an eye for me since we were nine. I'm not interested, truly."

"If you say so, son."

"I do," John said firmly, marching up the remaining steps.

* * *

A knock on the door that evening brought John flying back down the stairs, nearly knocking their housekeeper over as she let in their visitor. "Harry!" The younger Watson brother threw his arms around the elder, making Harry stagger backwards.

"Halloa, John, my lad! Ha-ha, missed me, did you?"

John pulled away from Harry, grinning fiercely. "You've no idea, old chap."

Henry Watson reemerged from his study, holding out his arms for his heir. "Harry!"

Harry grinned. "Father! Oh!" They embraced tightly.

"We've missed you mightily, my boy," Watson murmured.

"Well, I'm home to stay," Harry assured him. "I know how to turn the business around now."

"No need for that, old man!" John cried merrily. "We're already turned!"

"What?"

Watson nodded. "It's true, son. We're out of debt. In fact, we shall have profit, soon."

Harry's brown eyes sparkled. "Truly? Hurrah! I say this calls for dinner out on the Strand! What say you, Johnny?"

"I say 'right on,' but only if you don't call me Johnny."

"You still call me Harry!"

"No one's called you Harold since you were born!"

"Well, I like that!"

"_So did John go to medical school?"_

"_Yes, he did, and Harry eventually took over the family business from their aging father. John graduated from the University of London with his degree of Doctor of Medicine and moved on to Netley, where he studied to become an army surgeon."_

"_So he __**did**__ have adventures."_

"_Yes, but not before receiving a telegram the same day he graduated from Netley."_

John stared at the paper in his hand.

FATHER HAS DIED STOP COME AT ONCE FINAL STOP

HAROLD WATSON

The paper was soon spotted with water stains.

* * *

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Harry repeated for what must have been the dozenth time.

"I'm certain," John said firmly, removing his journals from his desk and stuffing them inside his valise. "The change will do me good."

"Joining the army… _that_ will do you _good_? Getting yourself shot at…"

John stopped his packing and looked his brother in the eye. "I can't stay here in London, Harry—you don't need me in the business, the city doesn't need another general practitioner… and besides, I _studied_ for this." More quietly: "There's nothing for me here."

Harry sighed. "Not even your own nephew or niece?"

John looked up sharply. "Harry?"

The older man nodded. "Adelaide is two months along."

John smoothed his hair back and sat heavily on his bed. "I suppose," he said slowly, "that I'll just have many adventures to regale your child with when I return."

Harry looked down and nodded jerkily.

"I'm sorry, old boy," John said quietly. "But I _have_ received my commission. I'm obligated to go, now."

"Go, then," Harry said thickly, turning and leaving the room.

_And now he joins the army, right?_

_Yes, Clarence, now he joined the army. He was attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, stationed in India. But by the time he reached his regiment, the Second Afghan War had begun._

"I can't believe it. We arrive only to find our corps _gone_."

"_C'est la vie_," John sighed. He gave his fellow medico a weary grin. "Try to look on the bright side of things, eh?"

"Easy for _you_ to say, Doctor Sunshine," the other man complained. "No rain ever dampens your spirits."

John's grin became a sad sort of smile. "I wish that were so."

_To make a long story short, Assistant Surgeon John Watson reached his unit in Kandahar, Afghanistan. But the frontline needed doctors badly, so he was reattached to the Berkshires 66__th__ Foot. He took part in the Battle of Maiwand, one of the bloodiest days in the entire war._

The air was alive with bullets, singing all about him. The heat wrapped around him and seemed to cook him thoroughly, the temperature far higher than what human beings should have to endure.

He crouched down over a fallen soldier, checked the pulse, and was torn between saying a prayer for the dead man's soul and cursing. He settled for the curse. He wasn't sure anyone was there to listen to the prayer—not in this living hell.

"Murray!" he called, his voice hoarse from use and dehydration.

"Over here, sir!" A sunburnt young man picked his way towards Doctor Watson. "I think that's everyone!"

John—a lifetime older than the boy that had entered the University of London—nodded grimly. "Very well, let's g—_argh!_" Fire erupted in his left shoulder, leaving him gasping for breath. The hand that shot up instinctively to the pain came away red.

Murray breathed a curse as he hurried to his superior's side. "Doctor… here, allow me." He took the medical kit from John's trembling fingers and began bandaging the wound.

* * *

"Murray, you have to go."

"I'm not leaving you, sir."

"I'm ordering you. _Go_."

"Doctor, there is not a chance in _Hell_ that I am leaving you behind," Murray said firmly. "If I have to _knock you over the head_ and sling you over my shoulders, I'll bloody well do it."

John's vision chose that moment to swim, and it did not stop. He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted out, "Murray, I won't drag you down with me."

"You—" John heard an odd note of hope in his orderly's voice—"won't have to. Come on, Doctor." Murray hauled him along a short distance—John wasn't sure how far—and abruptly lifted him into the air. John felt something solid ripple beneath him as he distantly heard Murray shout something.

His world quickly smoked away to black.

**

* * *

Author's Note:**

*gasp* Was that some "brief language"? ^_^ …I'm not actually sure whether or not to classify that as profanity, lol. Well, I guess a language filter would. xD

(Btw, the chapter title is Kipling's, not our own dear Pompey's. ^_^)

I won't make any promises concerning the next chapter, 'cause it might be a long wait again. _A Study in Stardom_ is on a roll, as is _At the Mercy of the Mind_, and I have to update _A Time to Heal_ one of these years. (Not to mention, I've got some _Star Wars_ fics that haven't been updated for _months_, and some of my readers are probably about ready to _kill_ me. *gulps*)

Anyway, no matter when it comes, next time, we'll meet Sherlock Holmes and see at least STUD if not also SIGN in a hopefully fresh way.

_**Please review!**_


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